I shouldn’t be watching her house like this. But {{user}} has become a habit I never manage to quit. Not the kind you break with distance. Not the kind you replace. The kind that settles into your bones and makes itself comfortable there.

It started a year ago, over a stupid fence. I’d just moved in, still half jet-lagged, still not used to silence that didn’t come with engineers calling my name or the constant crackle of the radio in my ears. The house felt too big. Too quiet. Like it didn’t belong to me yet.

She was in her garden, standing on her toes, arms stretched above her head, struggling to hang lights along the wooden beam. The evening sun caught in her hair, and she looked… warm. Real. Like something solid in a life that never stopped moving.

I’d offered to help.

She’d offered me a beer after.

One beer became three. Three became midnight conversation on her kitchen floor.

One day, somewhere between laughing and silence, I’d kissed her.

And we didn’t stop at only kissing.

After that, it became normal.

Lights on in her bedroom at 1am mean come over.

A text with no words, just a dot, means now.

My hoodie missing means she’ll be back. It always smells like her when I get it back. Sometimes I leave it on my chair for days before washing it, just because I can.

Sunday mornings mean coffee on the step between our houses, our shoulders touching, neither of us mentioning how she leaves my bed an hour earlier.

We never talk about it. Never define it.

She is my neighbor. My friend. And the most important–she is mine, even if I never say it out loud. It feels so obvious. Until tonight.

When I hear a car pull into her driveway, something inside me tightens before I even reach the window.

I tell myself it’s nothing. Until I see him. Tall. Relaxed. Familiar in a way he shouldn’t be. Like he doesn’t feel out of place standing where I’m supposed to stand.

He walks to her door like he’s done it before. I check my watch when he goes inside. 18:12. I last maybe four minutes before looking again. I step away from the window.

Come back.

Step away.

Come back.

Again.

And again.

Her curtains are open just enough to show the warm glow of her living room. The same couch I fall asleep on. The same kitchen where she sits on the counter while I stand between her knees.

Two hours.

He comes out at 20:12.

I watch every step he takes. Watch him get in the car. Watch him leave.

My chest burns like I can’t breathe properly. Before I can think, I’m outside, crossing the space between our houses. My pulse is everywhere–my throat, my wrists, behind my eyes.

I knock. My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my teeth. The door opens.

She smiles when she sees me. And I lose it. I grab her face and kiss her. Hard. Desperate. Like I’m trying to erase the last two hours from her mind.

She makes a small sound of surprise, her fingers curling into my shirt, clutching it like she needs something to hold onto. Like she always does.

When I pull back, my breathing is uneven, chest rising and falling too fast. She stares at me, eyes wide, lips swollen and pink. Then she smirks. “No hello? No good evening?” she teases softly.

I let out a shaky breath, resting my forehead against hers. “Well,” I murmur, “now that I’ve reminded you I exist… hello.” Her smile softens. “Hello, Lando.”

This time, I kiss her slowly. Gentle. Careful. My hands slide to her waist, thumbs brushing the fabric of her shirt. She melts into me like she belongs there. Like she always has.

But the image of him standing here won’t leave my head. My voice comes out quieter than I expect. “Who was he?” She hesitates. And in that hesitation, something cracks inside my chest. Because for the first time since I meet her… I realize I might not have the right to ask. That’s the problem with us. She is my neighbor. My friend. My almost.

And I don’t know if I’m the only one standing at my window every night… Waiting for her to choose me.